


Platinum Blues

by soupmetaphors



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Discrimination, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations (probably), Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Post-Canon, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Second Battle of Hoover Dam is over. Vegas is, at last, free from any god or master that wish to hold sway over it.The Lucky 38 is now up, running, and open to public. But Courier Six is falling apart, torn by regrets and the what-ifs and how-nows that come with time. And it doesn't help that she's starting to see people who should be dead out of the corner of her eye. [ Written for the Fallout Big Bang 2K16 ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic can be read either as a standalone or a sort-of sequel to [Gonna Walk The Mojave ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5719033/chapters/13176403) . Props to [Dani ](http://dani-art.tumblr.com/) for illustrating these fantastic pieces and generally being a sweetheart! Go and give her some love, everyone~

_“Welcome to the Lucky 38!”_

Her own voice rings in her ears as she looks at the photograph. It’s not very faded yet creased at the edges. A dirty brown creeps off the edge and onto the photo, as if blood has been spilled on it.

Perhaps it has: She can’t remember. There are a lot of things she can’t remember right now.

Like what the color of Veronica’s eyes are. Like how Cass sounds when she laughs. Like how it feels to look at her friends when they sit down and have a proper _meal_ together.

The courier traces her fingers over the glossy surface. It’s a nice photo. She doesn’t know who took it. Veronica had brought it in, almost a week after the casino was up and running.

It’s taken over the heads of a crowd, facing the doors of the Lucky 38. A crooked banner is pinned up: _Grand Re-opening_ , it screams in jubilant yellow. There’s a ribbon behind her, waiting to be cut. And there’s _her._

The duster with her lucky number emblazoned on it, her machete on her hip. She’s reaching for something above her: A silver blur glinting in the sunlight.

She knows what it is, even as she tucks the photo into her pocket. How can she _not?_ The platinum chip sits snugly in her breastpocket even now.

The feeling of nostalgia fades. There’s a knot in her stomach, an uneasy lurch that’s got her on the edge. _Something is wrong._

And of _course_ something is wrong- She can’t even sit still without wanting to tear her nails into soft flesh, to take up that old golf club and _smash_ all Yes Man’s monitors. Anything, _anything_ to keep herself together.

She lies back down on the bed, sinking into soft pillows.

The Presidential Suite is quiet. _Has been_ quiet, ever since everyone’s up and left. One by one, all to their own paths. She can’t blame them. They had _lives_ before she swept them up in hers. They _have_ lives.

And what does she have, besides them?

An ancient casino with too many unopened floors, a room littered with empty Mentat casings, and fingers itching to break things.

(She’ll break her own goddamn fingers if she loses it, she knows.)

Truthfully, there’s a part of the courier that didn’t want the ride to end. That didn’t want to stop the constant running about, the high noon conquests, the laughing herself sick while bleeding out in the sand.

But all good things must come to an end, whether you’re ready or not.

Restlessness: A sudden surge that twists her body, sends her head slamming against the headboard, fingers clutching the sheets. Hisses in pain, rolling onto her side. She can’t keep doing this, Jupiter figures. Can’t keep using Wonderglue to keep everything in place. Sooner or later, something _will_ snap.

And it won’t be that pretty of a picture.

Rises from the bed, rubbing her head rather gingerly. Bends to snatch her coat from the floor, pulls it on as she steps into the outer corridor. She punches the button for the elevator- Doors open, she steps into the mouth of the beast, watches the light fade as the doors close once more.

Already she’s thinking of the cracked roads she’ll traverse, the danger she might encounter.

_You started alone_ , she tries to tell herself. _See? You’re going soft, needing someone to be around you. You need to get back on your feet._

She will, she swears to herself, as the elevator judders downwards. Cross her heart and hope to die.

\---

Stepping out of the elevator, the courier’s hit by the atmosphere of the Lucky 38: People are everywhere, shoving and laughing, the smell of alcohol prickling her nose. Allows a small smile to slip on her face. There’s always _something_ about the main floor that makes her feel at ease, with the music trumpeting from speakers overhead and good times all around.

“Going somewhere?” someone shouts, before she’s taken half a dozen steps to the front door.

Her floor manager hurries towards her, holding what appears to be an explosion of color in a glass. Looks delicious, but she declines when he offers, shrugging a shoulder.

“Oh, y’know,” she says, lightly. “The Mojave calls, and I gotta answer.”

He smiles, nods in acknowledgement. He doesn’t question her. After all, she’s pulled him from the Chairmen- An old favor, finally cashed in. He knows better than to question her from experience.

“Y’know the drill, don’tcha?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright. Be a good boy now, hear?”

The man laughs as she shakes her head at him in mock disappointment, like a mother scolding an errant child.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and she leaves him there without another word, heading for the doors.

It takes her approximately ten steps to get to the door. Another twenty to walk down the steps and onto the street. Travelers everywhere, music blaring from newly-rigged up speakers, the neon lights of signs casting odd shadows on the ground.

The scene puts her at ease, as she slips into the crowd. This is good. This is safe. Or as safe as it can get, what with Securitrons trundling around and keeping an eye out on things.

_Have I shown you, Ulysses?_

Hands that once held a chip that destroyed, now holding a chip that fixes. But her skin’s still splashed with red. It’s unavoidable. It’s who she _is_ : Killer in the name of law, chaosmaker, troublewreaker. Or something like that.

Slows as she passes the Tops, wonders if she should duck inside. Just for a moment, nothing more: Dean’s got the stage tonight, and she almost always watches him sing.

Jupiter still can recall the expression he’d worn, bumping into her on the crowded street. Two weeks after leaving behind the Sierra Madre, two weeks of waking up screaming, flinching at every loud noise. And there was Dean goddamn Domino, staring at her like he couldn’t believe it.

She’d cried when she saw him. Everything had come rushing back, a tidal wave of horror and hatred that she suppressed so well. Hid so perfectly from all her friends, right up until he’d shown up: The choking sensation of the collars, the hologram of the starlet calling out, the sinking feeling that the old world had her _right_ where it wanted.

And wasn’t about to let go.

_No._ She yanks her gaze away from the doors, sets one foot firmly in front of the other.

She won’t allow herself to be taken back to that place. She _can’t._ The slightest slip, and all her cover-ups will shatter, all those feelings will drown her. And she’ll have lost the game.

The courier walks faster this time. It’s a struggle not to bolt for the gates, but she manages to slip out from the Strip without too much of a fuss. _Here_ she relaxes, properly. Her shoulders loosen, posture turning into a slight slouch.

She probably should’ve told her floor manager to tell Dean something sweet in her absence. But then again, he’s a big boy. And she’s got bigger problems than flustering an old ghoul.

Just to fill in the silence, she whistles as she walks: A jolly tune, something right out of the radio. Can’t remember the lyrics, but the rhythm is there, and it quickens her stroll through Freeside.  

There are less people here. It makes things easier. Easier to walk undisturbed, to hear herself _think_. And quicker, too: Instead of jostling through the crowd, she has the width of the road to herself, all the way up to the gates.

She doesn’t look back as she pushes it open and steps out into the Mojave.

As she walks, her whistling trails off, and her back straightens, already on the lookout for night prowlers and potential adventures.

The air seems more radioactive already.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The first three days pass without much incident: The usual raider ambushes, little towns that she skirts around, and the lights of the 38 constantly seen out of the corner of her eye.

It’s the fourth day where things go a little _off_ , for the lack of a better word.

She’s gone off the road, not bothering to check her coordinates for a proper indication of where she is. But it’s far enough from the Strip, and far enough from small towns with too many friendly faces.

Her hands fiddle with her machete as she walks, an oil-stained rag wielded to scrub off the freshest bloodstains- Courtesy of the _last_ band of raiders to cross her, about eight miles back.

It’s good to be out. She’s walking the Mojave like she’s _meant_ to, uncovering what little secrets it still hides from her, tracing her way through familiar scrublands.

(And it’s _lonely._ At night, she stares across the fire at the darkness, pretending that she’s with Raul or even Boone. Which says a lot, for all the history they have, tied together in damnation and friendship.)

The sky is a pretty shade of blue and tumbleweeds the size of molerats blow around on the weak wind.

She’s too busy dividing her time between furiously cleaning her blade and taking in the scenery, she hears the familiar _clack_ of claws a heartbeat too late. Drops the rag, raises her blade, takes a step back just in time before pincers sink into the space where her legs were, not two seconds ago.

_Too close for comfort._

Fingers curl around the hilt, gaze dropping to the ground. The bark scorpion waves its pincers menacingly at her.

“Well, fuck you too, buddy,” she says, and the sound of her voice after _days_ of silence is a little jarring.

Screw that: As her gaze sweeps across the ground, she’s seeing more of the little bastards creeping up on her. They hiss and chitter and the courier keeps walking backwards, trying to keep the tabs on all of them at once.

_Five_ , she counts, then nods to herself. _Easy._

When her machete finally swings downwards, it takes out two of the critters, cleaving them neatly in half. She darts to the third, but it lunges. Flings her leg out and sends it flying back, giggling when it arches through the air.

She doesn’t giggle so much as shriek when one of the remaining scorpions stings her. Pain shoots up her right leg, and she slashes downwards in anger. A _crunch_ as steel meets flesh, and then she’s yanking her machete free.

There’s an angry throbbing in both her head and her leg as she glares around for the final scorpion. In all the chaos, it seems to have scuttled away, perhaps less keen on sharing the same fate as its brethren.

Fine by her, at any means.

“Fucking scorpions,” the courier grumbles under her breath, carefully sheathing her blade. She bends to pick up the discarded rag, shoves it back into her pack, and sighs.

She’s been stung before, once or twice. But Arcade had always been there to have her back, to help her stitch up all manner of bullet wounds and broken bones.

( _Since when have you relied on people so much, Lee?_ )

Grits her teeth, fights the words out of her head. She’s not on par with medical experts, but she’s stitched herself up too many goddamn times, _long_ before Arcade. Long before any of them.

If she did back then, she can do it now. Her friends do _not_ hinder her abilities.

So she limps away from the area, intent on getting as far away as she can from the scorpions. Her right leg drags in sand. The pain is dull, a beating war drum, yet she walks on.

The sun beats down on her back, mercilessly. Rivulets of sweat disappear down her collar. Her vision is a haze by the time she collapses. Legs fold, knees hitting the earth, and then her entire body as she slumps sideways.

Ear to the ground. Heartbeat in her ears. Her leg is starting to numb, and her mouth feels dry.

( _You’re going to die out here. The_ famed _Courier Six, killed by itty bitty scorpions_.)

Anger, now. Overriding the pain, forcing her to put her hands to the ground and push herself upright.

Where _is_ she, anyways? Still off-road, flatlands. Instinctively looks for the 38, her compass, her treasure, her downfall. Yet everything is a huge blur. She can only _assume_ the bright light in the sky is the moon and not the casino.

_What’s the difference?_ she thinks, then laughs, hollowly.

By sheer force of will, she manages to prop herself up against a nearby rock. Digs her pack for medical equipment. It’s a half-hour of trying to fumbling, of trying to figure out the best way to get the venom out of her system. Cutting off her leg? No, no, that would be too messy. Suck it out? She doubts she can bend _that_ far.

In the end, she washes the wound, the angry red of her skin staring up at her. Binds it with gauze, gives herself a shot of Med-X to stave off the pain, then a dose of Mentats for good measure.

She thinks about starting a fire: Shivers dance up and down her spin, leaving her pulling her clothes tighter around her, doing her best to curl up in a ball. Yet her bones feel so _heavy_ , her vision making everything melt into blobs of indistinct shape.

Sleep pulls, no, _drags_ her under.


	3. Chapter 3

The collar around her neck is- as always- choking, but the dress makes up for it, she supposes. It isn’t practical as pants, and, sure, it’s a little grimy, but this is the Tampico: A place _built_ for pretty dresses and exotic cocktails.

Which she happens to be holding in her hand, as she heads backstage.

Her collar begins to beep. The throwing knives in her other hand flash, steel blurs upwards, towards the speakers, and all is blessedly silent.

_Find your team_ , Elijah whispers in her mind. The old man can fuck himself seven ways to Sunday. And his stupid treasure can go to hell, too.

The Sierra Madre’s closing in on her: Dead hands reaching for living flesh, her name echoing through corridors filled with ghastly figures in gas masks and plazas of red clouds.

( _The hardest part is letting go_.)

Her footsteps are light as she turns the corner. Her smile is brittle when she sees him.

“Dean,” she says, and he pulls the cigarette away from what’s left of his lips.

“You put the tape on, didn’t you? Couldn’t resist the ol’ Domino.”

Laughs, takes a sip of her drink. It tastes godawful, two hundred years of dust and other unsavory flavors sliding down her throat. She offers it to him, but he shakes his head, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Nope.” Takes a step closer towards him, a smirk on her face. “I got myself a reputation for fallin’ in with the _bad crowd_ , or so they say.”

His expression is mocking. “Am _I_ part of that crowd? _Really_?”

“Seems like you’re the baddest boy in the Madre.”

The ghoul drops his cigarette, steps on it. She watches him carefully. Sure, the wayward conversations can be great, but the day she met him, she knew he was a snake in the grass.

( _Like you. Picture perfect, huh?_ )

She isn’t surprised when she finds herself leaning in, tiptoeing for that little extra height; when she spills her drink, glass tipping downwards by accident; as he puts a hand on her waist and chuckles, right before a voice rings out and she freezes.

Turns around, brushing Dean’s hands away, righting her glass.

The hologram stands there, a flickering blue ghost. It’s the one at the fountain, the one of the woman. But her face is Jupiter’s own, without the cobweb scar on her forehead, without the haunted look in her eyes.

“What… what d’you want?” the courier asks.

The hologram smiles. “You, here.”

It sounds a little creepy, _definitely_ unsettling.

The situation descends rapidly when Jupiter sees the glowing green eyes that are lighting up behind her. Hears the ghastly _hiss_ as the Ghost People cluster behind the hologram, looking expectantly at her.

“Well, uh, sounds swell, but ain’t my cup of tea, y’hear?” she says, backing away. “I got unfinished business back out in the Mojave.”

“ _Stay_. You can have all this.” One translucent blue hand gestures to their surroundings. “You’ve always _wanted_ this. I know.”

The _real_ Jupiter turns, finds Dean is gone, and it’s just her, her backing away from the slowly advancing hologram. The future that never can be versus the present that only is.

When the first of the Ghost People leap, she flings herself towards the heavy, velvet curtains.  Falls to her knees to crawl under, her enemies barely a hair’s breadth behind her.

She hears the hologram laugh as she scrabbles out from under the curtain, not even fully up before she’s running towards the doors. Vaults over the railings, hears the fabric of her dress _rip._

(As long as it’s not her _skin_ making such a noise, she’s perfectly fine with it.)

Throws a look over her shoulder just in time to see the Ghost People struggling to untangle themselves from the curtain.

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna hold me down here!” the courier shouts, as she pulls open the door. “Nothin’, y’hea-“

The words die on her lips as a sea of masked faces stare at her from directly outside the door. Glowing green eyes, slow, jerky motions.

She screams as the hands reach for her, screams and screams and-

And _wakes_.

Jolts upright, gasping for air, clothes sticking to her sweaty body.

She doesn’t recognize the house she’s in or the bed. Automatically moves to grab her machete, only it’s not on her hip, but on the bedside table, still in its sheath.

Her vision isn’t blurry. Realizes this as she swings her legs over the edge, examines herself. Her thoughts keep flitting back to the nightmare, memories mixed with dreams to form an explosive cocktail of hell.

( _Don’t look back._ )

It’s hard not to, not when the only memories she have _before_ that shot to the head are fractured horrors.

Shaking her head, the courier looks down at her injured leg. The bandage looks fresh, and the pain from the sting feels like a ghostly echo. Stands. Tests her weight on her right leg, decides it _might_ be okay to walk.

She buckles her machete back onto her belt, the familiar weight a great comfort. Pats herself down. The chip, still in her pocket; her pack, contents intact; the photogra-

_The photograph._

She clutches her shirtfront, eyes widening in panic. No. _No._ She can’t have lost it, that reflection of happier days and clearer skies. It couldn’t have fallen out of her pocket, could it? _Could it_?

Takes a deep breath. Fingers find chems in her pockets, and she finds herself popping a couple of Mentats into her mouth, crunching as she leaves the room.

There are more beds outside, mostly mattresses lying on the floor. One or two of them are occupied by folk in grimy clothes. She doesn’t bother waking them. Instead, she picks her way quietly to the door. Almost halfway there when it opens, and she stops.

A blood-spattered white shirt. A hat. A face that makes her understand where she is instantly, makes words curdle in her mouth.

“Dr. Straus,” she says, sourly. “How the hell didja haul me from wherever I ended up?”

Ada Straus smirks. “ _I_ didn’t. A passing caravan found you all passed out, with a fever sky high and enough venom in your system to make your face grey.”

“Huh.” Swallows her pills, sighs. “Well, I suppose I gotta thank you for savin’ me.”

“About that… I did my best, as always. But you might want to look out for… anything _extra_ , so to say. The venom got so far up your system, it was a wonder you didn’t die.”

“You got it, doc.”

Shoulders pass the woman, blinking in the weak sunlight. Still feels a little weak at the knees, but fuck that: Novac is the _last_ place she wants to be.

Maybe if she’s very, _very_ lucky, she won’t bump into _him._

Yet fate has its stupid way. Not three steps out into the street when the doctor calls out to her.

“Boone told me to tell you it’s a good photograph. Beats me if I know what the hell he was on ‘bout.”

Jupiter’s eyes widen, then narrow. Teeth grit as she stomps away from the common house.

The _last_ person on earth she wants to see is Craig fucking Boone. But she goes anyways, mumbling darkly to herself, a little hurricane swirling down the streets of this sleepy town.

\---

He’s loitering in the parking lot of the Dino Dee-lite Motel, leaning against one of the poles that hold the whole structure up.

She sees his red beret, sees his sunglasses, and sees the photograph in his hands. It disappears, though, as soon as she approaches- Probably tucked into the back pocket of his trousers, hidden from view.

“Thought you had a gig with them caravans,” she says, giving him a scowl. “Bein’ a big boy and guarding the cargo.”

“I came back to check on this town.” He looks at her, but she can only see her own reflection in those dark glasses.

“Ain’t that nice.”

Silence steals quickly over them. The last time they’d been in each other’s company had been two days after the Second Battle. Words had been exchanged: Tense words, accusing words, and the sound of the slap she’d given him had made everyone stop and stare.

Clears her throat. She’s only here for one goddamn thing. And what Jupiter wants, Jupiter damn well gets.

“Saw you pawing that photo.”

“So you did.”

“I suggest you hand it right over, Boone, and I’ll be on my way.”

The answer he gives her brings her up short. “No.”

Sputters, anger rising like the little red arrow on her Geiger counter. “What do you mean _no_?”

“We’ve got unfinished business, Jupiter. There’s no point in trying to go around it.”

She throws her hands up in the air. _Unfinished business._ Seems like the whole _world_ has unfinished business with her, long after she’s tied up _her_ ends of the deal.

“What d’you want, Boone? A clear shot at my head? ‘Cause plenty of people have tried that, and even if we ain’t exactly on _speaking terms_ -“

“That’s exactly what unfinished business is about.”

Resists the urge to drag a hand down her face. _Fine_. Fine, let the angry soldier have his way. But so help her if he _actually_ decides to blast her full of buckshot. Because not even God himself will be able to save him then.

Her voice lowers. “You and I know why we fell apart. Can’t fix what’s broken and rusting.”

“I believed you were doing the right thing. It was harder to say once I found out the games you were playing.”

“Freedom is the only thing Vegas deserves.”

“Freedom can turn to anarchy. You could have negotiated a treaty between the NCR, instead of turning to the Legion.”

She wonders if he’ll pull the trigger should she slap him again.

“Boone,” Jupiter says, and her voice is deadly calm. “If you stole my photo just to call me out, I’m ‘fraid I’m gonna have to beat the shit outta you.”

“You’re a mess.” He looks away for a moment, off towards something on the left.

_This_ time she slaps him. It’s the scene in the Lucky 38 all over again, only in a different setting. Stares up at him in cold fury, hand poised to deliver a second blow.

“You’re not my fuckin’ father,” she hisses. “Hell, I can’t even call you a _friend_ right now. So just gimme the photo and I’ll leave you in peace.”

“You need help. Ada found enough chems in your pack to make someone high for weeks.”

“I’ve always taken chems. You _know_ that.”

“Not so excessively.”

It’s true. It’s true, and she hates him for it, for pointing out her flaws and failings and weaknesses. Her hand goes down to her side, stiffly.

“I don’t need help.” It’s a firm statement. “Understand, soldier?”

His smile is sardonic. Not that she expects anything _less_. “Yes, ma’am. And I request we meet here tonight. My shift. We’ll conclude our _business_.”

_It’s now or never._

He extends a hand for a shake, and she spits in her palm before she does it. The slap of flesh on flesh isn’t as stinging as she expects.

“Once we’re done,” she says, wrenching her hand away. “I ain’t ever gonna talk to you again, boy.”

She leaves him there, duster whipping around her legs as she stalks away.

(The thought keeps occurring to her: She should’ve killed him when she had the chance. They littered the road like corpses, piling high, yet she did nothing. And now she’s paying for that mistake.)

How many times had she leveled a gun to his head, when the lights went off in their suite? How many arguments, door slams, fists-in-your-face (on her part, mostly)?

“You should have killed him with the all the other profligates.”

Her head whips around so fast, she hears her neck crack.

Dark goggles meet her surprised gaze, that sharp-edged grin oh-so-familiar. She feels like her heart’s about to beat its way right out of her chest: Hears the _thump-thump,_ feels her chest seize up.

“A literal stab to the back. In the heat of the moment, no one would’ve noticed.”

“… _Plenty_ of people would’ve. D’you know how many people were at the Second Battle?”

Between the Legion, the NCR, the Securitrons and every _other_ faction she managed to wrangle in, she had hardly been able to distinguish friend from foe. Which _should_ have made murdering Boone easier.

“It’s too late for regrets,” she says, more for her benefit than his. “ _You_ should know that, Inculta.”

Vulpes’s smile turns into a smirk and he laughs. It’s a low sound, something she hasn’t heard in a long, _long_ time. Makes her chest hurt. Then again, every other damn thing makes her chest hurt- The Mojave is littered with memories that are slowly turning sour beneath the glare of the sun.

When was the _last_ time she saw him? Was in this close proximity with him, side by side as they meander down well-trodden roads?

(She knows the answer: The tent with walls painted red, wet sand beneath her knees, his helmet haphazardly on her head. _I won, I won your fuckin’ hat, like I always told you_ _I would._ )

Can’t think of anything _else_ to say, besides the obvious. So the courier walks, glad that Novac has a much lesser population than some of the roadside towns she’s been too. Of course, it’s only partially due to the Legion and raiders sweeping in without Boone to pick them off at night. But less is less and means little to no trouble for her, which is _always_ a plus.

They reach the edge of the town when she decides it’s time to speak up again: Her words are flung about, certain that if she even _pauses_ for  a moment, she won’t have the balls to continue.

“I could’ve let you live.”

She doesn’t make eye contact, keeping her gaze firmly on the dirt road stretching out before them.

“I had that goddamn choice, Inculta. _I_ had it, but hell, you weren’t exactly sittin’ still when I stabbed your old man to death, didja?”

(Her lap had been stained with scarlet, as did his matted hair. He drew ragged gasps, every little motion still indicating his will to fight, to drive a blade through her heart. But she was faster. Faster than the fox, and foxes who couldn’t be fast ended up _dead_.)

In the silence that follows, she thinks he’s disappeared- Carried out of her life once more on the desert wind. But then red flashes in her peripheral vision, and she sighs when his voice filters into her hearing.

“The profligates would have not stood a chance against us, had you not interfered so drastically. Had we-“

She interrupts him, cuts across his words. “-Had you actually had a _chance_ , you might’ve gotten me dead _and_ the Dam. But that ain’t how life works.”

To that, there’s no answer. She looks up, then left, still expecting a rebuke. But Vulpes is staring out to the horizon. And when Jupiter follows his gaze, she sees the Legion banners staked by the sides of the road: Gold on red, edges fraying, fluttering in the wind.

For a moment, she thinks that she’s dreaming- After all, she’s talking to a dead man, one she’s cradled in her arms moments before his final breath.

Then she approaches them, finds that the fabric is rough to touch, heavy.

“Ave,” the dead man whispers. His breath is hot on her cheek, but she does not flinch.

Instead, she finishes his words for him, taking the feared phrase and making her mark over it.

“… True to the Courier.”

When she finally pulls away from the banner, she finds herself alone.


	4. Chapter 4

The day drags itself on like a dying dog: Too stubborn to give up, too weak to move at any other speed.

She does not ask anyone about the banners, lighting the way to Novac. She does not wait for Vulpes to come back- For she _understands_ that there will be no coming back, no, not ever.

Doesn’t bother a soul, slipping around the town like a ghost, a shell of something once _human._

And when the day turns to night, the first of the stars starting to decorate the sky, the courier finds herself at Dinky’s tail. Boone waits for her, rifle slung across his back, arms folded impassively.

She stops when she’s about a few meters apart from him. Wariness and mistrust battle with old love and nostalgia. Yet she lets nothing sway her.

“What now?”

The question hangs in the air between them. It’s dispersed when he tells her his plan, nice and simple-like: That all she needs is to take down the banners. To burn them in sight of the dinosaur’s mouth, where he can see.

“There’s only about nine or ten,” Boone informs, as if she hasn’t spent the good afternoon walking up and down the stretch out road, counting the golden bulls.

The courier nods, sullenly. Watches him ascend the stairs, disappearing into the door that serves as the entrance to his sniper’s nest. Only when it clicks shut does she turn to the task at hand.

Ten. She counts ten, feet dragging slightly in the dirt. The wind has died down, leaving the banners hanging limp on their poles, and she has no trouble slicing them off with her machete. Some are stained with reddish-brown, some singed at the edges. She hadn’t been back to Novac since talking Boone into coming to Vegas with her.

Hadn’t thought of the destruction her actions would’ve caused on a smaller scale: Too focused on the big picture, on kicking everyone while they were down.

But this is no time for regrets.

One banner is heavy. _Ten_ makes it feel like she’s holding a caravan in her arms. She wonders who sews these banners, then remembers the slaves. The women and children and men assimilated into the Legion, identities erased, history banished.

And the thought occurs: _Did you really side with their masters?_

 _Yes_ , she thinks, as she makes her way slowly to a spot where Boone can see her from his nest. _I did._

There are no excuses she can give, nothing beyond her own reasoning. The NCR was corrupt, a pale comparison to their former glory days. The Legion had been the next option, controlled by a man who held the reins tight, an iron fist both figuratively and literally.

She saw what she saw, and her choices had been her own.

Reaching the perfect spot- not too near Dinky, not too far away either- and dumps the banners onto the ground. Her arms ache. Reaches into her pocket and pulls out a lighter, the same one she used to set the man who shot her alight.

It’s served her so many times. Tonight is no different.

The burning is a slow process. The fabric takes time to catch on fire, but, eventually, the whole pile turns into a bonfire of sorts. She takes a step back. Tucks the lighter safely away, watches the flames dance in the darkness of the night.

“Are you satisfied?” she calls, without looking towards Boone’s location. “’Cause I ain’t planning on stayin’ on Novac longer than I have to.”

Wonders if he’s got the nerve to try and pull the trigger on her. A headshot probably. Something that’ll blow her brains out and send her body sprawling like a tumbleweed. Or perhaps something a little more _personal._ A knife to the back, a messy bludgeoning.

She waits for the shot that never comes.

Five minutes pass. Smoke rises into the air, a dark column against the even darker sky. And still Jupiter stands there, stock-still until she sees a dark shape approaching her from the direction of the town.

She goes to him. Sticks out a hand, wordlessly, knowing that he knows what she wants. What she _needs_.

“I could’ve taken that shot, Jupiter.”

He says it quietly. She says nothing at all. Their conversation is nothing she wants to get involved with, but he soldiers on regardless.

“Knew you were trouble. Playing some triple-crossing game, taking up those Legion bastards… And don’t think I haven’t found out who was behind the Forlorn Hope massacre.”

She recalls trying _so hard_ to hide the truth from him, skipping around the topic as delicately as she could. There are no more lies to hide behind now.

Searches his gaze, but finds only tinted glass staring back. The fingers of her outstretched hand twitch. _Give me the goddamn photograph._ _Give it here. Let me go, leave this hellhole town forever._

“I burnt those banners.” It’s amazing how she manages to keep the whine out of her voice. “Ain’t no sign of the bull ‘round here. So I kept my part of the deal.”

“And now you gotta keep _yours_.”

His movements are slow, as if trying to aggravate her further. But then the photo is pushed into her hand, her fingers automatically closing around it, and the transaction is done.

It should be enough. It _feels_ like it isn’t.

 _Things could’ve been different,_ Jupiter wants to tell him, wants to spit at him with all the loathing she can muster in her body. _I would’ve still loved you, like I love all of our friends, like I love us._

(Had Boone and the others really been friends, though? Or merely tied together by her, the spine of every adventure and every loss. It’s hard to tell, even now.)

She takes a step back.

“Get out of here,” he tells her, and she nods, curtly.

“My fuckin’ pleasure.”

Turns her back on him, her once-friend, and walks away. Measured steps, a steady pace. Her hands are trembling. There’s a sour taste in her mouth, one that even saliva doesn’t wash away that easy.

When she hits the main stretch of the highway, she thinks it’s safe enough to start running.


	5. Chapter 5

She walks the Mojave with the practiced ease of one who has done so a million times before. Checks out old haunts, places passed through only once or twice. No dead people creep up on her, no voices in the night.

The problem is that she doesn’t know if she’s _relieved_ or _disappointed._

Stops by Boulder City at one point. She’s surprised to see little slightly more travelers around, filling up the broken buildings and the lonely bar. Buys a bottle of whiskey, gets drunk enough to put a little something up for Joshua Graham: An empty bottle filled with drooping flowers, placed at the foot of the NCR memorial.

“To the burned man!” she toasts, raising a fist in the air. “Who taught me- Who- Who taught me- _Something!_ ”

More than something. Plenty of things. Zion was a lesson, and Joshua had been a wayward teacher in her eyes. And, in return, she had taught _him_.

(In her mind’s eye, she sees the clear rivers, the dancing in the rain, the late-night fires: Things she will never have again, for she will never return to that land.)

(And it hurts. Her whole life, a string of hurts growing and winding around her, until she can barely see through the pain.)

Her flight from Boulder City is quicker than anticipated, the sudden urge to get away from this wretched place closing in on her.

The walk leaves her time to think, time to mull over what the years have done to her, what the label _Courier Six_ has made her.

(Or has she always been this way- This half-shadow girl, this dancing flame, this roar of thunder and steel. She doesn’t know. May _never_ know.)

She thinks of Veronica. Of how she’d dragged herself from the Sierra, half-dead and half out of her mind, just to deliver news of Christine. The expression on her friend’s face had made it worth it. Made the world stand still and _look_ , at the upward curve of her lips, eyes bright with excitement.

( _“I’m going to find her,” Veronica says, firmly._

_Jupiter looks up at her from the floor, pillow hugged across her abdomen. “Don’t go.”_

_Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go-_

_She doesn’t, of course. Not when the Brotherhood decides its fate with only the_ slightest _of prods. Her disappointment is clear- But the fact that her love is alive out there, that might hold reassurance_.)

Thinks of Christine next, a dead woman’s voice issuing from her throat. It had made Dean wince every time she’d opened her mouth. It made the courier herself shiver, want to take a step back, away. Wonders if Christine still haunts the red-misted streets of the Sierra Madre, a ghost among ghosts.

Wonders if she’ll ever return to the Mojave.

With each step, the courier’s mind runs wild: Flits from one corner of the desert to the other, a cazador, a yao guai on a rampage, free as a bird and chained to the ground all at the same time.

She thinks she sees her brother one night, face obscured by the shadows, her campfire blazing between them.

Words catch in her throat. Fists clench, eyes sting with tears that come too soon for her to prepare. She does not rise from her cross-legged position.

“It’s all my fault.”

A confession seven years in the making, an apology that sears her tongue. She repeats it twice when no response is evident.

 _Say you forgive me_ , she begs, silently. _Say it, brother, say it._

Say it- If only to bring the memory of his voice back to her, to unearth who she was and who she never will be again.

( _His blood pools around his head, a ghastly shade of red. A sound erupts from her throat: A whine that turns into a moan that spikes up into a scream._

_“No, no, please, no!”_

_The streets of the Boneyard seem to stretch out forever in both directions. She has no idea which way is home, which way will take her faster out of this place, she cannot bear it, cannot-_

_“There’s nothin’ to be done for him, girl,” someone says from behind, as her screams descend into wordless weeping._ )

Her dead brother watches her and she watches him back. And when he speaks, she hears the child he’d been, all those years ago.

“You left me.”

Three words. It shatters her heart, makes her feel like curling into a small ball. Worse of all, there’s no denying the truth. Out here, there are no secrets: The desert takes what it wants, regardless of consequences.

“You left me there.”

The boy stands. Walks into the direction of the night. He’s already almost out of sight when she unfreezes, scrambles to her feet, almost falling into the fire in her haste to get him.

“I’m sorry!” the courier shouts, voice cracking. Lurches after her brother, a specter in the distance. “I’m sorry, I was-“

“ _Scared_?”

 He pauses, a dozen steps ahead of her. Doesn’t move as she nears, desperation driving her to reach out, to touch, to pin him here with her.

“Yes.” Admittance is defeat in another word. “Yes, I was scared. I was sixteen, for fuck’s sake! I-“

“Mom and dad _trusted_ you.”

Frustration flares, momentarily taking the words from her. “Don’t you think I ain’t forgettin’ that! Don’t you fuckin’ dare!”

She screeches to a halt just behind him. Takes in his dirtied clothes, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, how _small_ he is in comparison to her. Right hand extends, going to pluck his sleeve, turn him around.

 _Let me see your face_. One last time, one little glimpse.

“You deserve everything that has come your way,” her brother starts. “And you deserve none of that.”

Those words, so serious, so grown-up. But who is _she_ to try and put false recollections to him? Who is she to make up who she _thinks_ her brother was?

Swallows, hard. Her hand falls to her side. Guilt, then, rushing through her, flooding her system with shame.

( _The rifle is heavy across her back: Her father’s, a birthright that has skipped her sister to land to her._

_“Be careful!” she warns, as her brother scrambles up the metal scaffolding. “I promised mom to bring you home in one piece, y’know.”_

_“Don’t worry,” he calls back, but it only serves to worry her more. There’s only the two of them now, without their sister, and it would break their parents hearts to see anything happen._

_She won’t let anything hurt him. She won’t, she promises._

_But the moment arrives where she watches him fall, throwing herself too late forward in an attempt to catch him, his name an echo on her lips._

_And the moment comes when she realizes she can’t keep promises.)_

“Please.” It’s a whine, it’s a plead for mercy, for justice, for _forgiveness._

Her brother turns: She sees white teeth, warm brown eyes so much like her own. A hand reaching out to her, untouched by time. She takes a step forward, heart in her mouth, thumping and bloody.

And she is falling.

Falling.

Fall-


	6. Chapter 6

She comes to her senses with blood on her hands and salt in her mouth.

Her elbows throb, dully, as she tries to regain control over her body: Fingers twitch, scrabble for some purchase in order to rise. It takes her five entire minutes to push herself to her knees, arms and legs aching.

 _Tiberius_ , she thinks, dully. And then the recognition slaps her in the face. _His name was Tiberius._

She can’t afford to cry- That’s all she seems to be doing these days, crying and shooting chems and killing and letting the whole damn cycle repeat. She can’t afford to be broken any more than she already _is_.

Drags her head up, looks blearily around. The earth slopes behind her, and she faces the rocky crags that rise and fall.

It’s a miracle how she even pushes herself into a standing position, gingerly wiping her scraped palms on her trousers.

Forgiveness is something she does not hand out easily. And, thus, she understands that she shouldn’t be forgiven.

( _“You need to stop carrying all that guilt,_ lucero _,” Raul tells her, gently._

_Her eyes squeeze shut. Hands pull his arm around her, tighter, lulling herself into a state of security._

_“It ain’t that easy.”)_

The courier turns on her heel, walks slowly up the slope. The remnants of her campfire greet her- At the very least, she hasn’t gone _too_ far from it.

Should she go _home_ now? With her brother’s name in her pocket, a handful of recollections, and little else. What will her parents say? Will her sister be there?

Will they still love her: Prodigal daughter, weary veteran, barely out of adulthood but having walked the lengths of hell.

She knows where her childhood begins. All she needs is that final step, that final push to get her on the road out of here, to begin a new life.

“You tired of Vegas, baby?”

“No, I’m fuckin’ tired of seeing dead people ‘round every goddamn corner.”

Kicks the sand over her fire, frown creasing her forehead. It’s taking a toll on her- This running, this talking, this life. She wants it over.

Yet she knows it’ll hold her here until she’s given it every single answer.

His eyes glitter with something that isn’t quite pride and isn’t quite malice either, but rather a strange go-between that sets her teeth on the edge. A cigarette dangles from his fingers.

“Got a light?” the man with the checkered jacket asks, and she grins, humorlessly.

Produces his lighter without a word, letting him walk towards her to get his smoke fix. His breath smells like sarsaparilla, a sweet that she loves. The smell disperses when he takes a drag, exhaling smoke over her right shoulder.

They’re barely a foot apart.

Is it possible to kill a dead thing? To murder a ghost? Even in the sunlight, she realizes that he’s solid, substantial to the best of her knowledge.

Her skin prickles, that cobweb scar itching from a gunshot wound a lifetime ago.

Benny smiles. “You wanted to take a walk, didn’t you? And, well, you have. Time to head on back, huh?”

Back? To the Strip? Or forward, forward to the only destination she can think of, the only destination that may matter: Her end of the line, her beginning.

“We’re goin’ back,” she tells him, picking her pack off the ground and slinging it over her shoulder. “ _I_ am, ‘less you wanna tag along.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” he drawls.

Plucks the cigarette out of his fingers as she brushes pass him, taking a long pull before letting wisps of grey escape her mouth.

“We could’ve had it all.”

It’s a statement she’s thought up of a thousand times before, spoken in varying tones aloud and to an empty room.

“There’s now.” The weight of his arm over her shoulders is abrupt but almost welcoming. “There’s now and maybe that’s all we need.”

“Shut the fuck up, dead man.”

He laughs as they walk, her fingers finding the hilt of her machete ever so often.

_The dead can’t hurt you._

Who had said that? Arcade? Lily? Ulysses? Names and voices collide and drip and she shoves them all aside, a sweeping motion.

“Let me have this,” the courier announces. “Let me have this, just for once.”

This walk, with a dead man she can stand, the sun beating down on their backs and a well-worn photo in her pocket.


	7. Chapter 7

Goodsprings sits in the desert like a stubborn brahmin, all slanting buildings and crops thriving despite the heat. She hasn’t been back since the day she’d woken up without a life and only a cap to her name.

But here she is. The end of her story and the beginning, channeling towards the graveyard on the hill.

“We made it,” Benny says, grinning lazily at her in the midafternoon sun. He isn’t sweating a drop, but Jupiter’s shirt is sticking to her, drenched in sweat.

Wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, takes three steps towards the saloon before she changes her mind. Instead, she wanders Goodsprings until she finds the good doctor’s house. Goes up the steps, Benny half a step behind her.

“I oughta be mad at this fella for bringing you back to life,” the man mumbles, and she sticks her tongue out at him.

“Speak for yourself- You’ve been dead for _months_ , boy.”

“A minor setback, don’t you think?”

“A major _convenience_.” She doesn’t knock, merely enters: Doc Mitchell’s door is always open to those in need. “Hey, you smelled just like them dishes up at the Ultra-Luxe.”

( _The next morning finds her alone in a tangle of sheets, the smell of whiskey and smoke hanging in the air. She thinks that he’s stepped out for a moment. Takes her time to stretch, to probe the bite marks on her neck and wince._

Something _is going right, for once._

_Gets out of bed, turns to grab her Mentats on the dresser. It’s only after her third pill that she notices the note._

_The rush to pull on her clothes that ensues does not leave her a happy woman,_ betrayal _a loud cry in her ears._ )

The house is silent, when she steps inside. Wanders from room to room, her footsteps echoing, pausing to occasionally rifle through first-aid kits and toolboxes lying around.

In the end, she finds herself back in the same room she’d started her life again in.

Takes a deep breath, rummages around her pack until she brings out paper and a half-chewed pencil. Jupiter has to sit to write, gripping the pencil awkwardly- Her spelling isn’t exactly top notch, but her thanks is a _long_ time overdue.

“Aren’t you the sweetest, thanking the old man for patching your pretty little head up.”

She doesn’t look up from her scribblings and canceling-outs. “Fuck off.”

“I _can’t_ , baby, as much as I’d love to. We got to talk about what’s waiting up on that hill.”

An empty grave, facing the fruits of her labor. A shallow hole, still left uncovered, waiting for the day her body finally gives up on her. What _else_ could there be?

The man who put her there is sitting right next to her. _No one_ should be waiting for them, for her.

“Ain’t no one there,” she mutters, distractedly. “Jus’ gonna be me an’ you, or maybe just me.”

_Thanks Doc for-_

_Thanks Doc for fixing my-_

_Thanks Doc for fixing my head and making sure i-_

_Thanks for making sure i wasn’t dead-_

“What are you going to do once you’re one up there, anyways?”

 _Ah._ The _after_ is the part that always gets her, leaves her at a block. Because the next rational step is to die. To lie down, close her eyes, and kiss the world a fucking goodbye, thanks for the ride!

(There’s nothing left for her. Nothing, no one, she’s just another ghost standing in neon, drenched in blood and sweat.)

“… I’m gonna dance with the devil one last time.”

Puts the pencil down, trapping the note on the table where she’s _sure_ the doctor will find it. Stands then, looks at her erstwhile companion. He gazes back at her, the corner of his lips tugged down in a tiny frown.

“You gonna sit there lookin’ pretty for me all damn day?” she asks, tilting her head.

He makes no attempt to move. Blinks, stretches languidly. “This is it, sweetheart. Make me proud.”

“Haven’t I done that already?”

Leaves him there, finds her way out of the house and back onto the streets. People stare at she passes; one or two raise a hand in a wary salute, and she nods back at them, not stopping to talk.

The road up to the cemetery is steep, but nothing she cannot handle. Step after step, dragging herself up and up towards fate, towards destiny, until the ground stops sloping upwards and becomes a flat expanse.

She can see the lights of Vegas from here, especially the Lucky 38: A constant beacon reminding her that there lies all she’s worked for, all she’s done from the bottom up.

(Maybe Dean’s waiting for her, irate at the fact she hasn’t come to listen to his stories and laugh the nights away. Maybe her floor manager is swamped with work, patiently anticipating her return.)

Picks her way carefully across graves and wooden crosses staked into the hard earth. Fresh flowers give the little mounds a sentimental touch- People still remember the dead, still maintain their names in the air. Dead things don’t stay dead until their names are pronounced for a final time, suspended one moment, nothing but history the next.

(Maybe Veronica’s standing outside the bunker, watching the horizon for Christine. Or Lily, taking care of her crops with all the tenderness her bulky frame can muster. Even Boone, leaving Novac with whichever caravans he’s been employed to guard.)

Her grave sits there. Someone’s put a marker on it, a wooden plank jutting out. The wind’s blown sand and earth, covering most of it once more. She contemplates scratching her name into it, making it a _real_ headstone, then decides against it: Let time do that work for her.

Here is where she knelt, where she looked her death in the eye and snarled, where the legend of Courier Six was brought to life.

( _I have given you every answer. And now I expect retribution._ )

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“No,” she agrees. “I shouldn’t. Not yet.”

She thinks it’ll be much, _much_ prettier at night, watching those neon lights dance and spin from all the way over here.

“Letting go is hard, isn’t it?” House asks, and the courier sighs.

“Beginning again is _much_ harder, lemme tell ya.”

“To _you_ , it seems. I find no problem in picking up a new world, shaping it in hopes of restoration to former glories.”

She tries to guess which version of him will be there when she faces him: The old, dying man who gasped and gaped for breath, or the man in his prime, an emotionless face on a flickering screen.

“You’ve walked all the way here from the Strip, carrying that chip, _always_ carrying it. Doesn’t it feel _heavy_?”

One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “’M used to it.”

There’s a pause between her words and his. And when his speaks, Jupiter can hear the faint arrogance in his voice.

“There- I’ve done you a favor, haven’t I? And these favors do not come too lightly, if I may.”

 _There_? Her mind echoes the word, confused. Steels herself, gaze tearing away from those hungry lights. And spins on her heel before she can tell herself it’s a bad idea, eyes open, ready to see her former employer.

He holds the chip up for her to see, blood trickling down his outstretched fingers. One side of his head is caved in. She recognizes the damage dealt by her hand immediately, months and maybe even years ago. She _acknowledges_ it.

It occurs to her that- to retake the chip- she needs to grasp his hand. So she does, because she’s the motherfucking courier, and she bows to no gods, no masters: Drags her fingers over bloodied skin, watching her own turn red and slightly sticky.

“What now?” she asks, looking down at the platinum circle in her palm.

“You stopped taking orders from me, I recall.”

She turns the chip over in her hand. Watches a trail of red pour down the man’s face, onto his crisp white shirt. What _should_ she do? Walk back towards the lights, shove him off the hill, what, what, _what?_

“It’s not asking for an order, Robert. It’s asking for… _help_.”

He nods, like it’s the expected response. Maybe it is. Hands her a golf club, an item he’s produced almost out of thin air. But this feels _wrong._ She doesn’t strike him, doesn’t do anything.

“This is not an order,” House tells her, simply. “This is a choice.”

A free-willed choice. Just like _most_ of her choices, _most_ of them.

The courier has a golf club in one hand and the chip in the other. Both are heavy, but for different reasons. She takes a deep breath.

“This has _always_ been a choice.”

She knows, suddenly, what to do. The knowledge explodes in her mind: The scent of gunpowder and blood, new hopes and broken dreams, all carried in on the desert wind.

Drops the club with a clatter. Flips the chip, high into the air. It looks like the moon: Suspended in midair, forever turning. _Heads or tails?_

“Choose.” The man’s voice swells to a shout as she reaches for it.

Fingers close around the chip. For a moment, she can feel the hard edges of it.

And then-

And then, standing there, chip biting into her hand, watching red gush and pour down House’s face-

She _chooses._


	8. Chapter 8

_She’s standing in front of the Lucky 38, the chip in her hands. Opens her palm to see the result: Heads. Of course._

_Smiles to herself, puts the chip away, and reaches for her machete. The crowd waits, eagerly, as she pulls the blade free and turns to the ribbons behind her. It takes a slice to cut the ribbon, to officiate the grand reopening of the casino._

_She pushes the doors open. Music comes alive from speakers hidden systematically around, lights go on, and people are streaming through the door, ready to devour the Strip’s latest (and_ oldest _) establishment._

_Her floor manager is approaching, but she waves him aside, managing to squeeze her way through the doors and back outside._

_Her friends are waiting for her, all present bar Lily and Boone._

_A smile lights up her face: Tired, but genuine, tinged with excitement, something akin to satisfaction. “What d’ya think?”_

_“It’s a helluva sight to see,” Cass says, staring up at the sign, grinning._

_“I’m going to see the rooms,” Veronica announces. She grabs Cass’s hand, pulls her along despite the other woman’s half-hearted protests._

_Jupiter snorts, rolls her eyes at Arcade, who rubs his jaw, thoughtfully. He seems like he’s about to say something- Settles for a pat on the back, a reassurance that he’ll come inside, sure, as soon as he goes and settles some minor situations back at the Fort. ED-E whistles and bobs after him, leaving the courier alone with Rex and Raul._

_She catches his hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. “I guess I’m set for life, then.”_

_“You’ll be living like a real princess here, huh?” he teases, and she sighs, leans her shoulder on his shoulder._

_“Y’know what’ll be_ even _better? If you stay here and be my partner-in-crime.”_

 _His answer never comes, and she can’t pin it as a good sign or a bad sign. They’ve been through_ so much _together- Counting their escapades using all ten fingers seems almost impossible._

_But there’s only so much she can ask of him._

_“You’ll still have that Domino,” Raul points out. “He seems_ very _interested in being your partner-in-crime.”_

 _It’s not the same, she wants to tell him. Dean is Dean and the wasteland- at the heart of it- is a very,_ very _lonely stretch to pace back and forth._

_Instead, she straightens. Tiptoes to press her mouth to the part of his face that isn’t quite the corner of his mouth but isn’t quite his cheek either, lingering for a moment longer than necessary._

_Her heart aches when she takes a step back, watching the way he blinks in surprise._

_“Don’t keep me waitin’,” she says. “If you… If you leave, don’t you_ dare _keep me waitin’, Raul Tejada. I ain’t some dame who needs rescuing.”_

_She leaves him standing outside, the twinge in her chest instinctively pushing one hand upwards to press that spot, to try and will away the emotions._

_This should be a good day._

_This_ is _a good day, in fact, everything else be damned. She’s Courier fucking Six. And nothing can bring her down._


	9. Chapter 9

It’s the dead of night when she knocks on his door. Hears the sounds of tinkering from within stop, footsteps drawing closer. It’s taken her two weeks to haul ass up to New Reno, hitching rides with all manner of caravans and other pilgrims.

(She keeps looking out for the dead, but her ghosts seem to have receded, left behind in the Mojave dust.)

The door opens. Light floods out into the street, adding to the screaming neon. The streets are quieter here, in the residential area, a little way away from the main avenues.

“Can I help you?”

“It’s me,” she says, looking at her feet. “Your lucero.”

_Bright star_ , he’d told her, the day after they’d arrived at the Strip, the day she’d decided to give her second chance to her killer. _Just like your name._

She thinks he might not remember her: Two hundred years of names and faces constantly changing, perhaps it’s slipped his mind, it’s been erased subtly from memory.

It’s proven otherwise when warm arms wrap around her, when she’s pulled into a hug, burying her face into his jumpsuit. Neither of them speak: Her fingers grip the fabric of his clothes so tight she thinks that if she pulls away, she might just rip it.

And when she _does_ pull away, she looks up and makes a sound that’s caught between a laugh and a sob.

“I _told_ you not to keep me waitin’,” she says, and Raul shakes his head.

“New Reno just didn’t want to let an old man go, boss.”

There’s so much to tell him: About the dead, about the nights spent half-mad with loneliness and mistrust, about leaving New Vegas, about her plan to go back to the place she was born, so many plans.

There’s so much to tell him, but she thinks that perhaps it’s for tomorrow. Tonight, she just wants the company of an old lover, an older friend.

“So,” he asks, almost casually. “What brought you all the way out here?”

She lets him lead her into the building, a hand on the small of her back. “Oh, y’know-“

“I really couldn’t stand them platinum blues.”

 

 

 


	10. Bonus!

Thank you for reading Platinum Blues! Here's an extra picture done by the lovely Dani! If you love her art style (and the fact she's such a sweetie), go check her out at <http://dani-art.tumblr.com/> (her art blog) and <http://dani-dear.tumblr.com/> (her personal)! 


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